Moonlight Sonata
🌹Thorny Thursday💗 for January 30, 2025
Welcome to another 💗Thorny Thursday,🌹 the newsletter for Romantics.
Let’s hop right into our stories. They are getting good.
Settle in, and let’s start with Part Five of Sayblood’s Children by S.E. Reid.
Previously, the island rebelled against Othniel’s decision and left him lost, wondering if he made the right choice.
Above.
It was a word that took on an intoxicating quality, warm-blush-brown like Shrike’s skin, bright green like his eyes, and I drank it in. Whenever the poet came to visit that underground ballroom he would come to sit beside me, and I craved those hours. Hours of talk. Not about gossip and fashion or tinctures and drinkings but about things I had never heard of, before. Whenever he came to visit, I ignored all others.
Above. He lived above. Outside of Sumble’s body, in the place where I assumed that gods must walk and sleep and eat and lie together.
“Are you a god?” I asked him once, and he laughed.
“Ask not a poet if they are a god,” he replied. “They are as likely to weep as they are to lie.”
He would say things like this, speak words I had never heard before, telling me tales that could not possibly be true. His dialect was unfamiliar, singsong and light.
“There is something above your ceiling, Dread Lady,” he said, always polite. “Something immense. Something colorful. Millions upon millions of people of all types and shapes, places dripping with history and culture. Forests and animals and meadows and stars. The moon, the sun. And the sea. Have you ever heard of the sea, Dread Lady?” (To continue, click here)
The lovely Therese Judnea continues her great story, The Sword of Myn. In Chapter Four, we pick up where we left off last week.
“Estæ, eia! Calm down!” Earthiana cried. Stumbling forward, she laid her hand on the horse's lathered muzzle and stroked his forelock.
“Ssh,” she breathed, half to herself. She could feel the tingling in her skull. Not now – there wasn’t time and they didn’t know anything yet!
Where was Bran? And the rest of the party?
Her eyes swept the valley and the woodland beyond, but there was neither a sign of the other horses, nor their riders.
Eya’s gaze traveled over the stallion's coat. A blackened, bloody gash trickled streams of blood down his foreleg as Estae stood still, panting and dripping with sweat. His mane and tail were also matted with dried blood, and the saddle was tipped precariously to one side.
Lips trembling as she whispered soothing words to him, Earthiana fumbled with her handkerchief and pressed it against the wound, carefully wiping the blood away.
The abbot sent several of the sisters to fetch water, herbs, and cloths to cleanse and bind the animal's wounds.
“He must have been attacked!” Earthiana whirled to face the abbot. “Who would hurt my brother?”
“Hush, daughter. Brothers Jacon, Junil, Cinncinaté, and Marphas: go search for Prince Bran.” The abbot turned to the frightened princess. “Who else was with him?”
“My parents and Auranessa in the very least - I know not how many others!”
She tugged at his sleeve as the abbot repeated this to the friars.
“Do let me go, too!” she pleaded. “I have to find them! They must be hurt!”
The abbot raised his hand and silenced her.
“Child, if they were attacked as we both suspect, the attackers, whether man or beast, may still be present. You are unarmed and you do not know how to protect yourself. The brothers will search thoroughly and will take word to the palace if they are not found. It may be only that Estae was attacked, and the others are delayed by Bran’s need for a mount.” (To continue, Click Here)
In our next Story, the StoryWeaver Leanne Shawler weaves a worthy piece on Part Four of A River Trembles.
:The monarch has visions only in connection with the marks of those in the Chosen Court. You saw Llyr’s when you touched his.: Her gills vibrated. :In the past, the previous prophet becomes the Sage for the new Chosen Court. Thus, wisdom is handed down. Will you see if holds true this time?:
She uncoiled and paraded her enormous sinuous body past Llyr and I. Her scarred silver grey body coiled again. Maeve’s large eyes brimmed with hope. She raised her hand toward her mouth and on the back of it, shining blood-red, was the mark of a feather.
:I see it.: I reached out. :May I touch—:
Maeve placed her hand in mine. She shivered, a long shudder running down the length of her coiled body. How long had it been since another draig môr had touched her?
My fingers brushed her feather-mark. That touch plunged me into the past. I saw through Maeve’s eyes how the last Chosen Court monarch had died, and another was not born. Someone had to fill the position and so king after king stepped up until it became the custom.
I saw Maeve carry her stillborn child, find the cave, far away from all the politicking and there she waited … and waited …
A blue flash blinded me and the vision ended.
Releasing her, I whispered, :Oh, Maeve. I do not think this will be as easy as you say.:
Maeve blinked rapidly. :Perhaps not,: she managed.
I had no words for the heartache she experienced.
Llyr broke the silence. :We each have a mark. I, the Greal; Maeve, the feather; you, the torc. How do we find the rest?:
:The birthmark must be visible to both of you and invisible to one not of the Court. They may already be around you.:
I remembered the mark behind Jasper’s ear. :Are they … are they all accompanied by visions? Is that why I have them?: It could not be. It must not be.
Maeve nodded.
:Is there any chance such a mark means they are not of the Chosen Court?: My question sounded desperate even to me.
:They are always of the court.: Maeve’s serene regard held no curiosity.
I sagged, telling her anyway. :Then I may have found another already. The light was not bright enough to make out the mark clearly, just that he had one.:
:Who?: Both their questions blared in my mind.
:Jasper Tregallas.: I hated saying the name. (To continue, Click here)
On Blackstone Mountain, written by Samantha Burns, is about a young woman who inherits her Uncle’s farm and tries to make a go of it. Today, she gives us Chapter Two.
Easing himself down onto a chair and setting the cane aside, Ben stretched his sore leg out before him. He took a long haul off the bottle, and sat there surveying the rolling pastures. Acres of pastures criss-crossed by fences, stretching out to meet the surrounding forests.
Mountains loomed on all sides of the ranch and Ben drank in the sight of them. He’d forgotten how beautiful Western Maine was. Forgotten what it felt like to have his mother doting over him, his brothers poking fun at each other, and his father’s perverse sense of humor riling everyone up.
They’d always been a close-knit group—his family—and he loved them for it. It hadn’t been until Rachel soured him on home-town living that Ben had up and left. Enlisting in the military had taken him worlds away from Maine, home and family.
He’d done well as a Marine, too. Channeling all of the pain and anger surrounding his divorce, Ben had excelled in basic training. Upon graduating, he’d been invited to join the Marine’s special forces and went on to receive further training. He’d become a specialized operative, joining a team of highly trained soldiers.
He was good at what he did and didn’t really think much about life beyond the military, certain that he still had many more years of service to give. But that all changed in the fallout from his last mission.
“Is this a party for one, or can anybody join?” Pap drawled as he came around the table.
“By all means,” Ben said heartily, beckoning to a chair.
Even at 83 years of age, the senior Jebediah Danforth was an imposing man. Ben supposed his grandfather had shrunk just a little in stature. He’d lost muscle-mass and his hair was thinner now—whiter. In his eyes, though, Ben saw that same shrewd, all-knowing intelligence which still had the ability to make his insides squirm.
“How is it?” Pap asked soberly, taking a swig off his own beer. “Being back among the civilians? How you holding up, son?”
Coming from his gruff-mannered grandfather, the question surprised him. It was rare that he would ask such a personal question. Ben could remember the last time very clearly. It had been shortly after his divorce had been finalized. Ben had been a wreck, just trying to pick up the pieces of his life. But he was so devastated and humiliated—so angry with the world—that he couldn’t seem to get it together. It had been that eye-opening conversation which had spurred Ben into joining the military the very next day.
“I—um—” he hesitated, not sure how much he should reveal to his elderly grandfather, but he could not deny the truth, either. “I’m a little overwhelmed, I think.”
Glancing toward the noisy household, his grandfather laughed ruefully, “I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
At that Ben expelled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, almost laughing, but overcome with an inexplicable wave of sadness and regret at the same time, “I just don’t know what to do with myself now.”
Pap nodded, “I felt the same way when I came back from Vietnam. Didn’t even know if I wanted to come home, to tell you the truth.”
Both men took another long haul off their beer, then, Pap said, “Take some time, son. Catch your breath. There’s no rush to move onto the next big thing.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not getting any younger, yknow, Pap.” Ben muttered.
The old man chuckled, “You’re tellin’ me!”
Ben chuckled ruefully, “Exactly—you of all people should know how fast the years go by.” He hesitated a moment and then added, “I may not know what I want to do with the rest of my life, but I do know that I’m ready to settle down—to start a family of my own. I’m ready to bring my own chaos to these crazy Sunday suppers.” (To Continue, Click here)
K.M. Carroll is a very talented writer. My proof is “Heart and Crown,” and tonight, we bring you Chapter Four.
Draven circled the room, inspecting the furniture. It was old and worn, but serviceable. The window was narrow, with glass in it, and through it he could see the castle courtyard. People bustled to and fro down there, unloading crates and bags from a wagon that had just arrived.
Who were these people, and what was a revenant? His questions were piling up, and no one seemed willing to answer them.
He found a mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. Stripping off his armored vest and shirt, he examined the tattoos. They swirled down his back, forming a row of circles halfway down his spine. What did any of it mean?
Across his chest was a vicious pink scar, newly healed. Draven ran his fingers along it. It didn't have much feeling in it. This must have been what killed him: some kind of massive blow to the chest. It probably destroyed his heart and lungs at the same time. But what had done it? A blade? A bullet?
Next he studied his own face. He saw a man with a sickly complexion and unsettlingly bright eyes under a harsh, calculating brow. His head had been shaved, leaving stubble that might have been black. He ran a hand over his head ruefully. No wonder everyone stared at him–he looked like a savage who would cut loose and kill them all. The armor was no help, giving him a barbaric look.
The robot flew into view, peering into the mirror with him. Compared to Draven's sinister looks, the robot looked cartoonishly cheerful. "Getting a good look at yourself?" he said. "It's not much to work with, but once your hair grows back, you might not be so ugly."
"Thanks a lot," said Draven dryly.
The robot left his shoulder and flew a circuit of the room. "If we can persuade Adolphus to give you a servant or two, they could fix this room right up, make it homey."
"A fire would be a good start.” Draven sat on the hard bed. "What's a revenant?"
The robot wagged back and forth in midair as if shaking his head in disapproval. "They shouldn't have called you that. Very rude. A revenant is an undead slave, raised to do a certain task for its master." He flew to Draven's face and floated so close that he almost touched his nose. "You are resurrected, not undead."
Draven frowned and pushed the robot away with one finger. "So you say. But I fit the description, at least as far as Lord Adolphus is concerned."
The robot made an affronted clicking sound. "If you want my opinion, I don't think you were properly dead. According to the records I dug up, you've been in a freezer for three years."
Draven recalled drifting in the darkness of eternity, the only memories he couldn't seem to shake. "If that's true, shouldn't I be able to remember my past?"
"Depends on what happened to put you in that freezer," said the robot. "Mortal chest wound, head wound, or maybe you died of magic. Magic-related deaths can be incredibly nasty."
Draven pointed to the scar on his chest. "How about this?"
The robot eyed it. "That does look mortal. After being dead for three years I imagine there wasn't much left of your brain."
"I guess." Draven got up and wandered around the room, touching each article of furniture. After a while he said, "If I'm Draven Shadowmend, what's your name?"
"I'm just a field stabilizer," the robot replied. "They don't name stabilizers. But you could call me Stab for short."
"Stab?" said Draven, grinning. "What, do you want me to tape a knife to you?"
"Ooo that would be neat!" said the robot. "Then I'd actually be dangerous!"
"Yes, so dangerous," laughed Draven. "Then you could help me fight darkwraiths."
"I'd need a decent beam sword, not just a knife," said the robot. "Do you have a better name?" (To continue, click here)
As always, I hope that you enjoyed “Prelude to a Dance,” last week. This week, I bring you the actual way to Dance your Desires.
Heather beamed happily as she moved to the center of the cleared-out space and dropped to her knees with her head bowed. All at once, her demeanor changed from joyful to sad. She shook her head and let her hair fall over her face. After a few seconds in which she didn’t move, her shoulders heaved as if she was crying. She raised her head and looked around like she was searching for someone. She reached out, a hopeful look on her face, only to curl back into herself, acting as if someone was kicking her. She repeated this several times, growing increasingly despondent with each rejection.
Rising to her feet, she pretended to be sneaking down a street while trying to remain unseen. She froze, head tilted as she acted like she heard something. She displayed open fear when she looked at Balgair, shook her head, and then pretended to hide.
She shook her head again and pretended to deny the voice only she could hear. Then, as if scolded, she lowered her head and pretended to follow after the man. When she pretended to be standing in the shadows of a room, she stared at Balgair as if being afraid to approach him. Finally, she slunk over to him like a scolded animal and held out her hands to him. The look on her face was that of a woman expecting to be hit and chased off.
When that didn’t happen, her expression changed to that of surprise. Her head tilted as she listened to him, and then she shook it sadly.
Amelia and Nell watched from the background as Heather stood uncertainly and swung her hand as if holding a sword. Then she pretended to drop the sword and again held out her hands to Balgair. There was that tilt of her head as she listened to him ask a question, and then she once again rose to her feet, this time pantomiming that she wanted a strong man, that she wanted to cook and clean for him, serve him, dance for him, and have a child for him. (To continue, click here.)
The true hallmark of a writer is in taking old stories and making them new again. “The Snow Maiden,” by Amanda V. Shane, is one of those stories. We’ve all heard of the Snow Queen or seen Frozen. Shane has taken that story and retold it. This is the story Disney should have given us, and I’m glad that it was Amanda who told it.
“Have you seen her?”
“Alina, come look over here.”
“Oh, she’s so fair!”
“Just like an angel with all of that golden hair.”
“What do we do with her? If we keep her, she’ll be found.”
“We must keep her hidden. We can’t let the queen know about her.”
Nika woke to a chorus of hushed voices, her lashes heavy with cold crystals. When she fluttered them open, immediately, a hand brushed away the tiny ice fragments that broke, then fell on her cheeks. Beautiful feminine faces met her eyes as soon as she opened them. She gazed up, bewildered by the crowd that looked down on her.
“So blue…” a small voice gasped, “… her eyes!”
A flurry of excited whispers, further back, could be heard. Nika pushed herself up, finding the ground where she lay covered in snow. She shivered, wondering how long she’d been asleep.
“Wh-where am I?” she asked. “And who are all of you?”
Her observers brought forth a long, thick pelt of white fur to wrap around her. It warmed her in an instant.
All the women hovering around looked young, about her own age, but they were all as white as the snow on the ground. They wore frosted head wreaths, some made of fir pins and others of bare branches with berries. Even more of their crowns looked to be made entirely of silver icicles that shined and glinted like diamonds whenever they moved. To a one, their skin was milky white, shimmering in the moonlight as though they’d all been sifted with fairy dust.
Their dresses were beautiful, some long, some short, but all gleamed white, and were decorated with fur trims and gemstones of silver, gray and blue. Nika looked around wide-eyed at the place she found herself in. She had no idea how she’d come to be here. She remembered finding the little cave above the creek and crawling in. After that, she recalled falling, but then nothing else.
Wherever she’d landed, it was full on winter here. A pristine layer of snow covered everything. It sparkled the way snow will do in the sun, even though the dark of night currently blanketed the area. All the snowflake girls stood around her in a clearing of otherwise dense forest. Tall, grand fir trees coated in frost stood like sentinels around the perimeter. (To continue, click here)
Josh Tatter is no stranger to Westerns or romance stories. Today, he’s treating us to the Court of Miracles.
Long ago, the Three Moons appeared in the skies above Eldovin, choosing its people for their own. The celestial entities imparted their knowledge and wisdom to the three most worthy inhabitants to act as their representatives among the denizens of the land. While these heralds held sway from the resplendent Lunar Cathedral, the people of Eldovin were granted gifts from their new sovereigns: immense scholarly knowledge, prolonged lifespans, and robust constitutions.
Eldovin thrived for centuries at the mercy of the Three Moons. The people grew prosperous, flourishing above all others. But as Eldovin grew in affluence and dominion, resentment grew among the other nations of the world.
Soon, a vicious and vengeful power emerged to the east, and the influence of the Three Moons began to wane. (To Continue, Click here)
Makenna Grace continues her Vampire love story in Chapter Eight of “The Art of Darkness."
Morvinus tried to get in front of me, nearly stumbling on a sizable pothole in the asphalt. “Amber, it carries too much risk. Please, you can not do this.”
It took him by surprise when I stopped, his usual graceful manner shaken by the jolt in movement.
“Morvinus, I have a lot of questions. And right now, he's the only one who can answer them. If you know of a better way to do this, by all means. Until then, I'm going to see him. With or without you.” I didn't wait for a response before marching off, only to realize if he decided enough was enough, I might be walking. But, regardless, I couldn't just let it stand.
Luckily, I didn't have to make that choice. “Amber, wait.” There was an audible sigh as he joined me. “Are you sure this is wise with you being in such a state?”
“We don't have time to waste.”
“Fair enough.”
He held the door for me as I climbed into the passenger seat, relieved that I didn't have to do this alone. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation for either of us.
Even though the drive was relatively short, with the uncomfortable silence building, it felt much longer. Only this time it wasn't the tension between us, but my growing anxiety around what I was about to do. I couldn't keep my hands from wringing, tearing an extra napkin I found to shreds, fluttering pieces all over my lap and the floor. Morvinus touched my wrist, the gentle reminder I needed.
It was then, in that moment, his cold fingers on my skin, I finally took a breath, allowing me to clear some of the fog. Like it was the first time since this entire charade began. I turned each detail over and over, giving it a second glance in my mind.
“Morvinus, why haven't I turned?”
This question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”
“I've been bitten twice now. Both times more than forty-eight hours out. I don't feel any different. I thought I would feel different.”
“Amber, you can not be turned by being bitten. As far as I am aware, there has never been any case of a human being turned at all. Though, I will admit, most of us do not leave their prey alive to find out. However, every vampire I have ever known was born that way.”
“But, there's no mark, no scar, no pain, nothing. Almost like it never happened. I don't know. I'm not making any sense.”
He squeezed my hand and smiled. “You are to me.”
When we pulled up to the house, the street was quiet. Not at all unusual for this suburban neighborhood at this time of evening, but somehow, today, for me, it was more than unnerving. Approaching the front door, I found myself looking over my shoulder more than once, even jumping when a stray cat ran across the street. I lifted my hand to knock, forcing myself to take a deep breath.
For a moment, there was laughter behind the door, until Dr. Isaacs opened it to see my face, nearly dropping the phone in his hand. (To continue, Click here)